Beginning.
"But, Director Fury! I'm doing fine on my own. I don't need an assistant-"
"Barton, just stop." Nick Fury, director of the Avengers project at S.H.I.E.L.D whirled on the young man before him. Ever since the board had announced that Clint was not strong enough to work on his own, after his injury, and they were appointing another assassin to work with him, this was all Director Fury heard of.
"But, sir..." Barton pleaded, spreading his hands. Fury could see the disappointment in his eyes, but could do nothing about it.
"I'm sorry, son. There's nothing I can do about it. This is beyond me and my control, and the board is worried about you. After you took that blow-"
"I'm fine!" Clint screamed. He was shaking and his fists were clenched. He hated when people talked about his injury in a condescending way. As if it made him weaker. He was fine, he had recovered, and he was stronger now because of it. Just because he got hit once doesn't mean he needs extra help, and certainly not help from a girl. He was fine.
On an assassination mission, Clint, working as his superhero alias, Hawkeye, had been watching a couple who was supposed to be the next target for this specific Gang. His job was supposed to be to take out the leader of the operation as a warning. While he was focusing in, one of the other mob members came up behind him and stuck a shiv into the flesh just below his shoulder. Is wasn't deep enough to be fatal, but just enough to keep him in the hospital for more days than the board generally overlooks.
They decided to take him off a couple of missions, and let him take a lot of recovery time. That was babying him enough, but now to add a girl to his plans? One that supposed to "help" with his work? This was too far.
"I'm fine, Director Fury," Clint said, shaking his head. "You can just tell the board that I don't need-"
Fury sighed. "Boy, I want this just about as much as you do. You think I need another amateur to train? No. Plus, what the board does is beyond my control. Even if I wanted you to keep going solo, their judgement overrules mine. You're getting this partner and that's that. Honestly, Barton. You'd think an eighteen-year-old boy would be able to take this kind of thing."
"Fury, I'm twenty-one." Clint sighed.
"Good," Director Fury admonished. "You'll be needing a woman in your life at some point, we're just giving you a little help... In more ways than one."
Clint scoffed and stepped backwards as the Director laughed and walked off to his office. He didn't need any help from S.H.I.E.L.D., no matter what he was doing. He can kill people just as easily as he could get a girl, right?
Barton shook his head and stuck his hands in his pockets. Since it was Saturday and he didn't leave for his next assignment until Wednesday, he was in casual wear; blue jeans, and a red t-shirt.
Because he wasn't currently with a girl, as Director Fury had so kindly pointed out, Clint stayed at S.H.I.E.L.D. The rooms were small, but it was home. Clint stayed not far from the hospital wing of S.H.I.E.L.D because he got injured so frequently. Especially because of the last one...
Clint shook his head. He wouldn't think about that right now. Right now he had to think about what he was going to do about this girl who's supposed to be his new partner. He was hardly an expert assassin, he knew that, but he was still efficient enough that the job was always done right. They didn't call him Hawkeye for nothing...
Clint snorted at his own joke and kept walking. For some reason Agent Hill and three other guards were all standing around looking like confused idiots they are, mumbling something about a missing person in the headquarters.
Clint shook his head and turned back to his room, the key was around his neck, it almost always was. It always had been, and that's where it stays unless it was on his bedside table. But, since Clint wasn't home that often, it mostly stayed around his neck.
As he was turning the key in the lock, he could hear the guards behind him go running down the hall in the opposite direction. They were yelling in hushed tones at each other, but there was one word that Clint caught that rang in his ears like a bell. Romanoff.
He wondered who this Romanoff person was, and more importantly, if they were dangerous. For a brief moment, Clint considered going to the armory to get his bow and a few arrows, but then remembered that he had them in his room, because he had been too lazy after training to take them back.
He thought that perhaps a he should grab one of the pistols from his desk but his thoughts were interrupted when the lock clicked and he opened the door and was face-to-face with one.
"Hands up, behind your head. Barton, I take it?" A voice said through the darkness that still lingered in the unlit bedroom. Clint made a move toward the light-switch, but stopped when he heard the gun cock.
Clint then moved away and complied to the voice's demands. Thought he couldn't see the offender, he could vaguely make out the shape of a man standing next to his bed. Clint slid into the room and set his key down on the nightstand next to the door.
The man who had the gun pointed at his head moved to Clint's left, and the two of them turned counterclockwise. The attacker getting closer to the door, and Clint closer to his bed.
"Well," the voice started speaking again, though the time, Clint noticed, in a less manly voice. "It's been a pleasure. I'll just take this and be off." The attacker waved the gun around a bit and then moved their hand toward the doorknob.
"Wait!" Clint was surprised to hear the word come out of his mouth, but the offender listened and stopped moving. "Who even are you?"
The offender laughed. It startled Clint, because it wasn't a deep, hearty laugh, but a light, almost girly laugh. The offender threw their head back when they laughed too, which struck Clint as a slightly more feminine attribute. As the offender kept laughing, Clint moved inconspicuously closer to the light-switch next to the bathroom.
The offender sighed when they finished laughing and looked back up to look at Clint again, but had to whip their head, and their hand, around to find them, and by time they did, Clint had flipped the switch.
The attacker winced and shielded their face, and Clint took the opportunity to move across the room and pull the gun out of the offenders hand.
He took a step back and pointed it at them, only to be met with a wide pair of green eyes staring back at him. Clint froze. The attacker standing at his bedside was a... Girl? And a pretty one at that...
She was tall, but not as tall as Clint, and curvy. She had not-quite shoulder-length bright red hair. Clint wondered if it was dyed, but got a little distracted by the young girl's eyes. She looked about his age, maybe a little younger, and had the brightest green eyes Clint had ever seen.
They were a green the color of grass, but not a dying sort of kind. It was more of a lush, well-watered grass green. Only a shade or two darker. And when she looked a thin like that, with such fear and anticipation in her eyes, she looked beautiful.
Clint felt his chest grow tight. His fists clenched, and he took a step back. The girl smiled. Seeing her relax made Clint smile too, for a moment.
Then, before he knew it, the girl had kicked the gun out of his hand, rushed forward, and shoved him against the bed, causing him to fall on top of it. She turned around and grabbed the gun and pointed it at him just as he was getting back onto his feet.
"Agent Barton, this really has been a pleasure. I'd say we should do it again sometime, but I don't make a habit of getting too friendly with my co-workers." She lowered the gun to her side and turned for the door.
"But," Clint started. The girl turned back to look at him even though she was halfway out the door. "I don't even know your name!"
The girl smiled. She tossed her hair and looked down the hall before glancing back at Clint.
"Romanoff. Agent Natasha Romanoff. I'd say this is the beginning of a great friendship, wouldn't you, Agent Barton? Catch you later."
She closed the door and left Clint in his now very quiet room, with her words still ringing in his ears.
Beginning.